


stranger inside me, where you are born

by Eddaic



Category: Gintama
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Ginzura Week, M/M, Profanity, Prompt: Unspoken Words, Sexual Content, Slash, long overdue, mature themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eddaic/pseuds/Eddaic
Summary: When he forgets (and he does, deep in the thick of battle), Zura is there to remind him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for mature themes and sexual content.

"Stranger inside me, where you are born

I will give you a closed book and ask you to never read it [...]"

– Traci Brimhall

**stranger inside me, where you are born**

**part one**

“What?”

“They’re wildflowers.”

“I  _know_  they’re wildflowers. Why are you waving them at me?”

“I want you to have them,” Zura says in that infuriatingly simple, straightforward way of his. The ocean of untamed grass sways with the autumn wind, and the light slants in Zura’s eyes. His tired, ill-fitting clothes, rather obviously scrubbed of stains in some places, do nothing to diminish the thoughtfulness in his brow, the patrician bearing of his back and shoulders. 

It makes Gintoki’s stomach feel weird, like he's got an upset tummy, so he kicks him in the shin and says, “You’re stupid, Zura. And those flowers have bugs, so I don’t want them.”

Zura doesn’t throw the flowers away or hunker down and start sobbing, like Gintoki expected him to. He waits till they stroll back to the dojo and then thrusts them at Takasugi, who looks at him strangely but pockets them anyway. Gintoki watches, confused, and angry because he is confused, and even  _more_  confused because he is angry. 

He hangs around till Zura leaves, then sidles up to Takasugi, pokes him in the shoulder a bit more roughly than usual, and says, “Oi, you want those flowers?” 

Takasugi furrows his eyebrows. “They’re kind of girly, but Zura gave them to me, so I’m going to keep them. Shouyou Sensei says it’s impolite to refuse gifts.”

“But what are you gonna do with them?” Gintoki prods. “They’ll just wither and die.”

“I’ll keep them till then. Why do you want them, anyway? There are plenty of flowers outside. They won’t cost you money, you stingy perm-head.”

“Just give me one.”

“No.”

They both acquire matching black eyes (thanks to the ensuing scuffle) and matching egg-sized lumps on the head (thanks to Shouyou), but Gintoki manages to filch a tiny yellow flower that fell out of Takasugi’s pocket. He tucks it into his notebook and swears to throw it out the moment it starts to rot, but it stays there and burns to cinders along with the school, eight years later.

***

Gintoki realises, perhaps too fast, that it doesn’t matter what the men are fighting for, how badly they want to fight for it. They all die just as easily, just as fast; the gunships blast them away like sand in the wind. The only thing that matters is how skilled they are with weapons and whether or not death is grasping them by the throat.

When the battle is over, Gintoki wipes the sticky wetness from his eyes (sweat or blood, it doesn’t really matter, and his hands are already too filthy for him to know), turns his head in the direction of Hagi, and thinks of Shouyou. Takasugi comes out of nowhere and bumps their shoulders hard enough to make him stumble, and Gintoki would tackle him to the slippery earth if he weren’t so exhausted. He looks at Takasugi’s weary smile and flips him the bird, but not without a returning grin.

At night they sit together and shovel dumplings into their mouths. Sakamoto laughs so hard at his own jibe at Takasugi's Napoleonic stature that he chokes, and Zura has to reach over and thump him on the back. Gintoki kicks away his empty bowl and lies down on the damp turf, and silently wonders if he should be so content. There is no god he will kneel before, but this warmth feels close to blasphemy.

***

(The battlefield is an old home, the corpses mundane ornaments, the graves little shrines.)

***

First he is indifferent, and then he loathes it, this new name, this new weapon,  _Shiroyasha_. It is useful in war, so he says nothing of it, but when the chants grow too-loud-too-frequent, then the only sounds that filter into his ears are the bright ring of metal and the wails of the Amanto he slays, and the only thing he sees is targets, marked by sharp _otherness_. The soldiers guard their demon jealously, and it grows fat on their cheers and whispers and fear, and he hasn't the heart to rebuke them.

He is only Gintoki. Shouyou called him that, so it must be true. When he forgets (and he does, deep in the thick of battle), Zura is there to remind him.

***

He speaks Zura's name and it's like breathing clean air after walking through a tunnel filled with smoke. It occupies an odd place in his life. Zura's name snaking into his body and making a home in his skeleton, Zura's name pinning him to the world outside the battle front, where the Shiroyasha cannot reach. He can't let it go even if he wanted to. (He doesn't want to.)

And his name spills like guts from Zura's lips. Gintoki, let me do your stitches, Gintoki, clean your wound before it gets infected, Gintoki this, Gintoki that, Gintoki, Gintoki,  _Gintoki_. 

Zura has said his name so many times his tongue must be laced with its essence. Gintoki wonders what it would be like to kiss him, to taste his own name in Zura's mouth. He wonders if it will cause him to un-exist, to be cut off from this dimension. It will be nice, he thinks, to float in a kind of void, or perhaps to become one.

***

Sometimes the woman will ask for two of them, and if they’re drunk enough or in an easy enough mood, they’ll agree. It is just another excess of war (along with the blades glutted with blood and the small hills of bodies and the dismembered grinning skulls). Gintoki’s had Takasugi’s fingers in his ass and Tatsuma's tongue in his mouth, but he's never fisted shadowy hair or slipped a green kimono off a strong pale shoulder. His attempts to pester Zura into coming along to red-light districts have been fruitless; the only results of his persistence have been a nose in the air or a fist to the face.

So he always asks for the same type of woman: tall, dark hair,  _black_ , and pin-straight. Hazel eyes, or brown. It's okay if she has scars, in fact the more the better. He takes them from behind or closes his eyes, and bites his lip to stop the words from pouring out. Sometimes he'll take ages before actually fucking her, kissing her languidly or pressing sucking bites to her neck, and she'll either say he's considerate and sweet, or tell him to get on with it because there are customers waiting and she doesn't have all night. 

***

They huddle around a fire and scarf down three-day old porridge and warm their stiff, chilled fingers. Winter has sunk its teeth into the hills, and game is growing scarce. Zura sways with drink and the bone-weariness of battle, and Gintoki in his idleness is struck with the memory of how those gaunt, dirty cheeks used to be soft like the skin of peaches. Then the idiot yawns and parks his head in Gintoki’s lap, hair pooling like dark oil, and Gintoki tries to be heartless and shove him off but finds himself sitting very still, so as not to disturb him. Even though Zura’s brow is smooth and his jaw slack, lassitude is etched into his face.

Remembering he is still in the presence of comrades, Gintoki looks up. Sakamoto, for once, is not in the throes of laughter. Gintoki takes no pleasure in it, even though he’s shouted at the taller man innumerable times to quit guffawing and _focus_. As if aware of Gintoki’s thoughts, Sakamoto cups his chin in his hand, and his lips quirk in a smile. “There’s some comfort even amid war, huh,” he says, his blue eyes flitting to Zura, who is now snoring softly, and then to Gintoki. 

“What do you mean?” Gintoki says defensively. He pretends he's not rattled by this sombre, almost grim Sakamoto; at times he forgets that there is a reason this son of Tosa is not yet rotting in the barren earth.

Sakamoto’s expression is unreadable. His helmet is off and tufts of curly hair gleam bronze in the firelight. It makes him look younger than usual, uncertain and vulnerable. He gazes at Gintoki for a long moment and then scoffs softly. “God, Gintoki,” he says, with a laugh that sounds like a sob, and takes a swig straight from the bottle in his hand.

***

On nights when war seems to be the only thing that’s real, Gintoki glances at his broken band of brothers and thinks, It will be fine. We’ll survive this. We’ll all return to Hagi, maybe even Sakamoto if that whole going to space plan doesn’t work out, and we’ll study under Shouyou again and sleep through summer afternoons and the only stains on our hands will be from the berries we steal from the neighbours’ bushes.

***

Gintoki doubts he'd ever seen such a flop of a battle. They lost over forty men (not counting the ones who were robbed of limbs and have to be carted away) and they'll doubtlessly lose more due to infections - those are always the worst deaths, because they're _preventable_ , or they would be if the Joui army had enough medicine, even two more medics. The new recruits won't arrive till a month later. He doesn't want to think about it, so he trudges away from the camp after forcing down an early dinner.

He’s lounging under an arching willow, nodding with sleepiness, when Zura slips into the clearing and kneels down before him. 

“It’s late. You can’t keep sitting around here,” is his gentle chide. He hasn't washed; the side of his face is streaked with dried blood.

Gintoki blinks in the semi-darkness. His head feels weighed down, like he’s had too much wine.

Zura frowns, worry in his brow. He becomes like this, soft and tentative, almost meek, when others are hurting, and will not stop trying to help till he is sure they are safe and happy, or at least content; he will break himself before he sees another suffer. His gentleness has always terrified Gintoki, because gentleness is excessive, open. It is not weakness but it leaves one exposed. “Are you all right?”

Gintoki reaches out, grasping the back of Zura’s head, and presses their mouths together. Zura makes a sound of surprise, but does not pull away. Gintoki tugs him onto his lap and threads his fingers through matted, oily tresses. "Zura," he mumbles between kisses, " _Zura_." The void is there, surprisingly warm, swallowing him whole, yet also he feels the weight of his own existence rooting him to the earth. He kisses Zura harder, pulls him closer so their bodies _fit_ together.

Callused hands slip over his neck, brushing against his collarbones, and he groans roughly. Vaguely he registers the stench of stale sweat, but he just doesn't _care_. Then Zura rolls his hips, clumsy and desperate, and they both gasp. Zura half opens his eyes and breathes, "Gintoki," like it's all he's ever known, and Gintoki brings up shaking fingers to Zura's cheek, strokes the pad of his thumb across the skin. 

At length Zura releases an unsteady breath, drops his head to Gintoki's shoulder, and says in a choked whisper, "I don't want to go back." It sounds like a confession. Gintoki he knows he's referring to the camp, but the second meaning is not lost on him.

They stagger back to the company, supporting each other by the shoulders, and collapse together in the tent they share with Takasugi. Zura curls up like a dormouse and Gintoki holds him till the first rays of the sun touch the tops of the hills.

***

Sakamoto sweats and shivers on a makeshift bedroll and his right wrist is a bloody mess. His head is thrown back so his neck, white with the tendons sharply visible, convulses with the pain. Takasugi skulks around the medical tent, so tense with rage it sets everyone's teeth on edge, and insists that he's only there to keep tabs on how many more soldiers will be back on the field. Sakamoto chuckles weakly and tells him to focus on rounding up more members for the Kiheitai, and Takasugi yells at him till two medics forcefully yank him out of the tent.

Silently, Gintoki vows revenge. He doesn't receive it.

***

They're losing.

They'll get through this. They will.

***

It all goes wrong.

It’s all wrong.

It’s all wrong.

It’s all wrong.

***

Gintoki decides he'd like to die in a graveyard, amid dead bodies. It is a fitting end.

Yes. Yes, it is.

He leans his back against a tombstone and closes his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**part two**

He doesn’t want to live, so he wonders why his tongue moves to beg an old lady for her late husband’s manju buns. Vaguely, he guesses that it has something to do with knowing how to forage for food amid rotting corpses before knowing how to read.

“You and Zura, you’re like cockroaches,” he remembers Takasugi sneering at him. “You’ll survive anything.”

He stops mulling over where Zura is when Otose puts a roof over his head. For a time, for ten long years, it’s just him and an old woman, and the only reminders of scattered crow feathers and ungentle steel are in his dreams – those grow fewer and fewer each month. He possesses nothing, nothing at all of his old friends, not even a haori or a sock. Otose never asks about them, and Gintoki never talks. He tells her to lock away Shouyou’s book and it’s like none of them ever existed.

***

The kids come like battering rams. He lets them hang around, partially because he likes them, partially because they help him forget. They’re a liability, and a pain, and his mind cannot stray to the absence of a warm back against his own if it’s occupied with getting bills paid and fixing broken windows.

***

The blow to his jaw is unexpected. Gintoki is not sure what it stands for: a decade of separation, a token of old rough-and-tumble friendship, or something else.

But then he's running and Zura's running by his side and all he can think about is Shouyou and the way Zura said, _You don't have to fight anymore; let's all be friends and make onigiri_.

***

Zura moves to apply the pen on Gintoki's cheek. Gintoki narrows his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Adding a stitch so you look like a pirate."

Gintoki grasps Zura's shoulders and shoves him roughly against a wall. Zura tenses but otherwise does not respond. It's _enraging_. "You know what I meant," Gintoki says lowly. "Why are you doing this? Why did you say you would be my _left arm_ , whatever the hell that means?"

Zura is mute, and Gintoki grips him even harder. There will be livid purple blotches there the next day, dabs of watercolour. "Is it because of Shouyou? What I did?" Gintoki hisses. "Is that why you skulk around ready to help me at the drop of a pin, without even my asking? Because let me tell you – "

"I know," says Zura, his eyes wide and pleading, and Gintoki wants to _scream_ because he has no idea how such a pathetic, bleeding-heart little dove managed to survive so long in this world. "I know. There's nothing I can do to make up for it. Which is why I'm not trying to. Even if I did nothing but dedicate my life to you, even if I died – "

"Shut up," hisses Gintoki. "You _shut the hell up_." He shakes Zura, so his head knocks against the wall. Breathing hard, he lets the other man go and backpedals, tripping over the carpet and stumbling. There is a long, tense moment during which neither says a word. Zura leans against the wall looking like a kicked puppy and Gintoki strokes his chin, trembling. He wishes the war had never happened. He wishes Zura could just disappear so he wouldn't have to be reminded of Shouyou. He wishes the war had never happened. He wishes Zura had died instead of Shouyou. No. No, he doesn't. No, no, _of course not._

"You're not dying," he says, quiet and hoarse. And God, he always was a hypocrite, a coward, a lowlife. "Not for me, not for anyone." He looks at Zura, who has his lips pursed and his brow furrowed in what seems like concern. Why would he be concerned for Gintoki? What does he know? "Is that clear?"

Zura drops his gaze to his sandals. Gintoki kicks the table.

***

"Why do you act like we were never your family?" Zura asks quietly, staring down at his lap. "Why do you pretend that we were not your brothers?"

Gintoki knows the 'we' extends to Sakamoto and Takasugi. He resists the urge to scoff. "Bitterness doesn't suit you," he returns blandly.

"Answer my question."

"It was so long ago you may as well have been nothing to me." It is only a half-truth.

Jaw tight, Zura sets down his tepid tea with shaking hands and leaves through the front door. Gintoki lies down from where he had been sitting on the sofa and throws his arm over his eyes. It was Zura's fault for asking a question like that.

Old wounds have not yet closed, and he cannot help but resent Zura for existing, for daring to just _appear_ right when Gintoki was beginning to feel _happy_ again. He stands for everything, everything Gintoki has lost, and Gintoki tries not to take any joy in the fact that Zura has found no new family to soothe his weariness, but he does. Oh, does he. He revels in spiteful satisfaction, misplaced and unjust though it is. When Zura says one day, looking wistfully at the kids, that he is alone, Gintoki suppresses a smile.

He festers in hatred, or what he thinks is hatred, until a tsujigiri with blind eyes holds up a whip of smooth dark hair like a prize and brushes it over his cheeks, his lips, drinking its scent, half-moaning Zura's name. It is then that Gintoki remembers what true hatred is, feels it bubbling like miasma in his chest and threatening to rise up and spill from his mouth.

When he sees Zura again (alive – _alive_!) he hides his relief, locks it deep in his heart, and focuses on the Amanto. After they pull themselves out of the freezing water, they lie side-by-side, breathing heavily, their hands brushing. At length they struggle to their knees, sopping wet and miserable. Gintoki looks at Zura, who is gazing out at the sea with pursed lips, and he wants to run his fingers through the feathery locks that stick to Zura's nape.

He wants to say,  _Come home with me_. "I gotta get back," he says instead.

Zura glances at him, and Gintoki has to look away because he knows, he  _knows_ they should talk about this - them - and he knows they won't, because that's now how he works. It was never how he worked. Not with Zura.

Gintoki wants to kiss him, twine their fingers together and feel  _safe_. 

"You asshole," rasps Zura, searching Gintoki's face. He sounds like someone has plunged a dagger into his gut and is twisting it slowly. "You complete, fucking  _asshole_."

They go their separate ways, and Zura does not come to Gintoki again for a long, long time.

***

It takes a while – several (bizarre) chance encounters, and more shouting matches than he cares to count – before Zura is tentatively tugged back into the circle Gintoki considers "family". On New Year's Zura leaves the woman he's smitten with and spends the evening with the Yorozuya. He tries to slip away after dinner, but Gintoki and Kagura don't let him. "It's cold out, Zura; you'll freeze your balls off, you will," says Kagura sagely, and Zura actually winces before turning to give Gintoki an admonishing look.

***

Zura's voice seems to come from a far distance. _You bloody fool_ replays in Gintoki's mind like a broken record. Before him the city is painted in tired evening light. 

He can't bear to turn around and watch Zura leave. He can't bear it. He can't –

***

He knows something is wrong when it’s not Sakamoto who answers the transmitter, but Mutsu. Her voice is carefully controlled. He feels like he is wading in the quagmire of a dream.

 _No_.

Kondo is saying something, has a hand on his shoulder. Yorozuya, you all right? Oi, Yorozuya.

 _No_.

Someone’s shaking him gently. Shinpachi. What’s wrong, Gin-san? Are Sakamoto-san and the others okay? Gin-san Gin-san you should sit down drink some water you’re so pale give me the transmitter what happened tell me what happened. Just...Hello Mutsu-san is that you is something wro –

 _No, no, no, no, **no**_.

There’s static in his ears and white splotches across his vision and the world is shifting, blurring around the edges. He hears Mutsu’s voice like she’s right next to him. I’m very sorry Sakata-san

Katsura-san is

dead

Katsura-san is dead

dead he told us to leave without him we can’t find the body but we have his haori and sandals once again I am sorry –

Zura moulding onigiri with a deep furrow in his brow. Zura practicing swings with his shinai, sweat slashing his face and neck. Zura placing flowers on makeshift graves, his proud back bent, his cheeks bone-white. Zura's careful, chilly fingers combing through Gintoki's hair. Zura kneeling in the sucking mud, about to slit open his belly.

“He’s not dead.”

Shinpachi looks at him. He’s still holding the transmitter loosely in his trembling hand.

“This isn’t enough to kill him.”

They’re all staring at him like he’s mad, like he needs _special_ care and _special_ attention. Hijikata’s got pity and understanding in his eyes and Gintoki wants to break his nose.

“I’ll believe it when I see the body myself,” says Gintoki through gritted teeth. He stands straight, looks up to the smoke-shrouded sky, and grips the hilt of his bokuto.

***

His punch sends Zura stumbling back.

“What the _hell_ was that for?” yelps Zura indignantly, holding his cheek. He doesn’t hit back. (He never does.)

Gintoki turns away. “Next time you pull something like that, I’ll kill you.”

***

Kagura and Shinpachi are gone and the old lady is dead. She left him the apartment so he doesn't have to worry about finding a new place.

Gintoki sells it and rents out a tiny flat near the river. Suddenly, eating eggs on rice is like choking down cardboard and there’s no fun in not paying the rent, because the cantankerous, wrinkled landlord actually does kick Gintoki out when it’s two days overdue. Gintoki convinces himself that it’s only the pain of adjustment, that it will go in a few months – he will grow used to being alone again.

Sometimes Shinpachi drops in with his wife, and occasionally Sougo and Hijikata will stop by under the guise of making sure he's not causing trouble. Kagura sends him letters with spelling so atrocious it makes even Gintoki cringe, but she's having fun travelling the universe, and he doesn't grudge her that.

Purely by coincidence, he keeps bumping into Zura. It’s not like Gintoki hangs about the areas he knows Zura works in or tends to wander around. He just likes the same places. He likes Hokuto Shinken, and he likes the video game store, and he likes the pet shops. Really.

Occasionally Zura invites himself over, and Gintoki makes it a point to gripe and complain, and say that he doesn’t have money to feed two, that his landlord doesn’t like shady former terrorists around, that the place will start to reek of alien duck. But he never kicks Zura out, and eventually Gintoki finds himself eating dinner with him every weekend. It is always cheap, and simple, and at times they burn the food and go hungry. And sometimes, sometimes, Zura falls asleep on the couch and Gintoki grumbles and throws a tattered comforter over him.

***

They turn thirty-two and Gintoki buys Zura soba at a stall with a sticky, dirt-flecked counter and two-for-one deals.

"This is a surprise," says Zura, peering into his steaming bowl. The light of the lamps softens the lines of his face. "You taking me out." He glances at Gintoki, seeming perplexed, and Gintoki looks away because he can't _deal_ with the gentleness in those eyes. "What's the occasion?" Zura asks.

"It's your birthday."

"You haven't even wished me on my birthday since we were eighteen." It's not an accusation, but there is raw hurt throbbing beneath his tone like an open wound. Zura never was able to let go of old things, be they ideals or objects or friends. _Friends_. Ha. Gintoki snorts softly and Zura frowns. "Something funny?" If there wasn't any frost in his voice before, there is now.

"No, no!" Gintoki says quickly, flapping his hands frantically. He remembers the right hook that sometimes used to accompany that tone, back when they were idiotic teenagers, and has no intention of experiencing it again. "I only..." He gestures lamely, fingers clawing at air, and sighs, frustrated. "Just eat your damn soba."

Zura just looks at him, like he's waiting for him to say something else. There is something in those soft eyes akin to a plea. Gintoki feels like his heart is being squeezed, so he snaps, " _What_?"

"Nothing." Zura picks up his chopsticks, drawing a deep breath, and Gintoki has a sudden, overwhelming urge to grab him and hold him close, closer than humanly possible, to burrow under his skin and make a home there, become part of his flesh. He quaffs his sake and tells Zura he's ugly, that he should cut that stupid hair already, that he's been making Gintoki's life punishingly difficult since they met in that damn dojo on that damn spring day, and that he wishes it never happened.

Zura begins to cry, and Gintoki accidentally knocks over his sake cup because he hadn't expected that, he _always_ insults Zura, and Zura never cares about it, he's _used_ to it, is the toughest bastard Gintoki knows. Gintoki gets off his stool on shaking legs. He hasn't seen Zura cry in years and years and he's so _shocked_ that he pulls Zura into a tight embrace, telling him shh, shh, I didn't mean it, God, I wasn't being _that_ awful, was I? Zura just clings to him like a limpet and cries harder, choked sobs wrenching from the pit of his belly. There's a warm wet splotch growing on Gintoki's shoulder and he puts his mouth against Zura's clavicle and for some reason he's crying too.

By the time they part the shopkeeper is hanging about the pots and staring hard at the menu, looking scandalised. Zura's nose and eyes are red and he's blinking rapidly, embarrassed. Gintoki pulls him away by the wrist, ignoring the uneaten food, and takes him back to his apartment, where he fixes him green tea. There are things he wants to say to him but can't bring himself to, so he offers him a _Jump_ comic and says _Naruto_ is really funny, it will cheer him up.

They sit together on the couch in silence, Zura now and again sipping his drink. _Naruto_ lies untouched on the table. At length Zura puts down the cup and murmurs, "Your house is a mess."

 _It could be your house, too_ , Gintoki thinks. He says, "Mind your own business, you dumb wig," but there is no bite in it.

"Even Leader made better tea than you." A pause. Zura seems like he's about to say something he's been wanting to say for a while. Gintoki waits for it, counting the seconds, rather too aware of the sticky unpleasant sweat gathered in his armpits. Zura takes a deep breath and blurts, "I'm hungry."

"...I'm seriously gonna throw you out the window."

***

Gintoki makes it clear, in no mean terms, that he will absolutely _not_ watch the New Years fireworks with Zura. His scooter is gone for repairs and they'll have to trudge for half an hour through the snow. They'll probably slip and break their legs, or catch a nasty cold, and Gintoki doesn't have the patience for that.

He shuts the door in Zura's face and goes and flops on the couch. What will they do at the display, anyway? Gintoki's bad at talking so he'll stay silent, and Zura will make a stupid, sentimental comment about how the fireworks remind him of their childhood or something, and their shoulders will brush, and Gintoki will think of how they would slump against each other after battles, breathless and aching and the kind of tired sleep cannot melt away. And maybe they will turn to each other and Zura will plant a kiss on his cheek, shy and still somehow bold (like he's always been).

Gintoki doesn't really know how the day slips by so quickly, but suddenly it is dark and the moon hangs round and bright in the sky. He lies in bed and stares at the peeling paint on the ceiling. The window slides open with a soft shuffle. He tries not to think about how he still recognises Zura by the light pitter-patter of his footfall.

Zura pads closer to the bed, pauses. Without really thinking, Gintoki extends his hand and clasps cool, rough fingers.

"I know it's late," says Zura quietly. "We can make it if we run."

_-finis-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the last line is from Bruce Springsteen's 'Thunder Road'.


End file.
